I never knew sheriff’s officers drove red trucks. Not until that night. I could barely make it out, at the end of my parent’s quarter-mile long driveway. Its presence told me my world was about to implode. I froze. No, I had to drive. Dad had called me, and said only one thing, “Catherine, you need to come home.” But what about the boys? (I was babysitting my sister’s four kids in town.)
“Catherine, you need to come home.” It was all he could say. It must have taken all of his strength just to get that sentence out.
I parked. The air thickened. Movements were in slow motion. The mist suspended in the air as I made my way to the door. My father, a large man with broad …
My brother loved me, and our entire family. He took delight in our accomplishments, and was genuinely interested in our day-to-day lives. He wanted nothing but for us to be happy and healthy. If I’d chosen to stay on the path of destruction, he would be heartbroken. And for me to break his heart again, I just couldn’t bear.
Brother, your little sister is happy. She’s leading a full, busy life full of laughter and love. She follows Christ, and yearns to learn more about his teachings, just like you did. The sound of little feet fill her home, and her family fits snugly in the core of her heart. She is happy, so happy. Her children are proof:
She’s such a delight. And you would probably agree, just like me when I was younger. …
He was an awesome uncle. And completely unselfish.
I’ve always bought into the notion that suicide is selfish. That’s what society, and random strangers on the street, tell you. After all, how could you inflict that much damage on your friends and famliy just because you didn’t want to hurt anymore? How could you only think of yourself?
But here’s the thing. When you’re hurting that deeply, when the synapses in your mind have been fried by trauma, you’re not yourself. You’re not yourSELF. So how, then, please tell me, is it selfish? To hell with that. My brother didn’t have a selfish bone in his body. He was generous, and kind, and always thought of others.
He had no idea what this would do to us. He actually thought he was a burden. He heard voices. Now, …
I’m shaking as I write this. Bawling my eyes out. I still can’t quite believe it. Tonight, I began frantically searching for a letter my brother had written me when I was in grade school. Why? I would soon find out. Just when I was starting to doubt my path, whether or not I should continue writing, I found this. It’s like he knew. He knew someday this would be my purpose. To tell his story to the world in order to save others from the same fate. There’s no turning back now. I’m writing a book.
“I thought it was real nice of you to think about writing a story about me. I think you’re a very good writer, better than I was.”
Brother, you were the best ever. You made me this book, …
The press will move on. Your true friends never will.
Right now, all eyes are on Penn State. Nearly every media outlet is eager to cover the monstrosity that is Jerry Sandusky. The stories are horrific. The cover up, inexcusable. Am I surprised? No. Sad? Yes.
There was a time when my family was in the national spotlight (Oprah canceled on my mom, and I’ve never quite forgiven her for that), and while I’m glad the exposure helped shed light on a deep and systemic sex abuse cover up in the Catholic church, the spotlight only shines so long. Soon, another tragedy takes the stage, and the coverage shifts to someone else’s pain. This is to be expected. It’s called “news” for a reason.
But what happens to the victims and their families …
When their heart is empty, don’t fill their glass.
If you ever decide to take 12 shots of whiskey, eat a package of Starburst first. That way, when you wake up in a puddle of your own vomit, it won’t smell so bad. I found this out the hard way, my life nearly ending on a night I can’t remember.
There was a dirty mattress on the floor of a run-down drug house, where me and three others tried to drown our pain in a bottle of cheap liquor. I don’t remember why I kept drinking. Yet somehow I can remember how many shots I had. Twelve. Is that even possible?
I woke up, face down in the front yard. My head was strategically placed over a hole to ensure that I didn’t choke. Looking back now, …